


The Debt

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Post - Deathly Hallows, lost fic, reposted, rhysenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:37:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are four things every person has more of than they know: sins, debt, years, and foes.</p><p>- Persian proverb</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Debt

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Debt](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/35955) by Rhysenn. 



> THIS IS NOT MY FIC. This is a long-lost fandom classic that I saved on my harddrive ages ago and just found again. 
> 
> The Debt was written by Rhysenn/Iscaris.

The Debt

 

1: Sins

 

There are four things every person has more of than they know: sins, debt, years, and foes.

\- Persian proverb

 

When Harry walked back into the Great Hall, the sense of jubilation in the cavernous room was still overwhelming, celebrations spilling into the hallways outside; the high, enchanted ceiling shone down upon them, and happy, tear-streaked faces beamed with more than the light of a new day.

Ron waved him towards the table where the Weasley family was gathered; Harry nodded to say he'd be right there, and Ron and Hermione went ahead to join the Weasleys. Percy turned around, saw Ron and immediately reached out and pulled his younger brother into a fierce hug. Harry gazed at Percy, so much older and more worn that he remembered him when he was Head Boy; the Weasleys had lost one son, but at least they had found another.

Harry gazed across the Hall, and his eyes seemed to slide over the blur of people to single out on the three Malfoys, huddled together at the end of a table at the far corner of the Hall. They seemed oblivious to the joy and celebration bursting forth around them. They also didn't appear to be speaking to each other – they just sat there, and it was easy for Harry to slip through the throngs of people to get to where they were.

Lucius Malfoy was the first to raise his eyes when Harry halted, standing right in front of them.

Harry reached into his pocket – and when he withdrew his hand it was not the Elder Wand or his own newly healed wand he held, but the one of hawthorn and unicorn hair. As his fingers closed around the piece of wood, green light and golden flames flashed in Harry's mind; then they were gone and Harry was looking into the grey of Draco's eyes, staring up at him.

Harry raised his hand, pointing the wand directly in Draco's face.

He saw the flicker of fear in Draco's eyes; next to her son, Narcissa let out a little gasp.

Draco stared from the tip of the wand to Harry's face; he blinked rapidly, and Harry saw Draco's right hand clench in a useless fist. Harry knew that the Malfoys were wandless – Lucius's wand had been destroyed, Narcissa's lost in the cursed fire in the Room of Requirement, and Draco's was now steadily held in its former owner's face.

"Potter," Lucius began; the humbled tone in his voice was oddly satisfying. "Please – it is over – there's no need –"

"Stand up," Harry said, his eyes not leaving Draco's, and Lucius Malfoy fell silent.

Draco bit down on his lower lip as he got to his feet. Harry tilted his wrist a little upwards so the wand was still pointing squarely at Draco. He stared at the pale, pointed face that had sent so many emotions through him before: anger and loathing and dark satisfaction, and more recently, pity, even sympathy.

He thought about how Malfoy and Crabbe and Goyle had ambushed them in the Room of Requirement, still defiant, how they'd nearly burned them all alive; then Draco blinked once and Harry remembered how Draco had stared at the floor and refused to positively identify them when they were hauled into Malfoy Manor as Greyback's captives; he recalled the look on Draco's face in the mirror in the boys' bathroom, streaked with tears and disbelief, the vision of fear in Draco's eyes when Voldemort forced him to torture Rowle; then, inexplicably, the warmth of Draco's body pressed against his back as the broom raced through the air, Draco's hands clawing his sides as if he would never, could never let go –

Harry took a step forward, bringing the tip of the wand within inches of Draco's face, pointing dead centre between his startled eyes. He felt Draco twitch and suck in a sharp breath; Narcissa let out a whimper.

"Your wand," Harry said, looking straight into Draco's terrified eyes.

Draco stared at him; he didn't move, his expression frozen as if someone had put a full body-bind curse on him and the force of Harry's eyes on him was the only thing that prevented him from simply keeling over.

Away in the periphery Harry sensed a hush fall over the circle of people just around them; on either side of Draco, Lucius and Narcissa were staring up at him with identical expressions of helplessness and fear.

With a quick flick of his fingers Harry flipped the wand over so that the handle was now facing Draco, the tip pointed at himself – a familiar direction, Harry thought wryly. Draco flinched away from the sudden movement, as if the wand would now spew curses at him from its other end.

"Take it," Harry said.

After a long moment Draco finally moved; he raised a trembling hand to grasp the stick in front of him. Harry released his hold on the wand the moment Draco's fingers closed around it. He took a step back, and then turned and started to walk away.

As he did, Harry allowed himself to wonder, for a wild, perverse moment, what might've happened if he had Crucio'd Draco with his own wand, right there in front of his parents' eyes. A dark part of Harry flickered to life as he recalled the satisfaction of watching Alecto Carrow twist and writhe under the curse; would Lucius and Narcissa have tried to stop him from hurting their son, even though they were wandless and surrounded by people who would dearly love to see them locked up in Azkaban for the rest of their lives?

Narcissa might have, Harry decided; she loved Draco, perhaps as Lily had loved Harry. And Lucius – he must have loved his son as well, if the Dark Lord had deemed it most painful, most effective to use Draco to punish Lucius's failings.

The truth was, Harry realised, he and Draco had something in common: parents who cared about them. The only difference was that Harry's were dead.

"Potter," came Draco's voice from behind him.

Harry stopped and looked around – to his surprise, he saw that he had barely taken a few steps from where he'd stood in front the Malfoys. His thoughts seemed to have taken greater strides; time and memories were strange this way, eternity happening within moments.

Draco moved forward; he drew level with Harry, and he was only slightly taller than Harry was. Harry saw the hawthorn wand, still clasped in Draco's right hand.

"Why?" came the quiet word, and they were so close Harry was sure nobody else heard Draco speak but him.

Harry looked at Draco, met his eyes.

"I don't know," he answered.

He was about to turn away again when Draco's hand darted out, catching him by the wrist and holding him back. From the side of his eye Harry saw Draco raise his hand – he tensed at first, and then he realised the wand was held, not poised, but at rest between thumb and palm. Draco's fingers reached out, as if to touch his cheek –

BANG! and suddenly Draco was flung away from him – Harry blinked and watched him fly through the air before crashing solidly into a bench about twenty feet away. Narcissa let out a scream, and she and Lucius rushed over to their son.

Harry turned to find Ron sprinting towards him, his face flushed, wand held out in front of him.

"Harry!" he panted. "Malfoy raised his wand – was about to attack you –"

"No!" Harry was torn between calming Ron and going to see if Draco, now obscured on the floor by the figures of his parents, was all right. "It's fine, Ron – we were just talking!"

"Talking!" Ron repeated, aghast, as if that were a completely alien concept. "But – he's not supposed to have a wand, how did he –"

"I gave it back to him," Harry cut in.

"What!" Ron grabbed Harry by the shoulders and shook him viciously. "Are you out of your mind – gave Malfoy back his – did he Imperius you, Harry?"

"No!" said Harry again, more loudly this time. "I just thought he should have his wand back. That's all!"

He turned away from Ron; but the spot where Draco had landed was now empty, and Harry looked up just in time to see Lucius and Narcissa hurrying toward the great doors of the Hall, supporting Draco between them.

"Everyone already thinks you're a hero, mate," came Ron's voice beside him. "You don't have to play nice with Malfoy – and just because you've suddenly got a bunch of extra wands doesn't mean you need to –"

Before Harry could take a step forward, there was a last glimpse of blond and the Malfoys were gone.

Next to him Ron was shaking his head and rolling his eyes to the sky, which was now bright, cloudless blue through the enchanted ceiling. Harry remained where he was for a moment; then he looked away from the entrance of the Hall and did not follow.

 

*

 

Several months later

 

Eve of Christmas Eve

 

The snow drifted down from the sky in white tufts to join the fluffy heaps already carpeting the wet ground. There was a definite air of lightness all around, a white gleam that seemed to shine from everywhere and make everything gleam with moonshine paleness.

Harry walked along the curving hedges until he finally drew to a halt in front of the wide wrought-iron gates of Malfoy Manor. He raised his eyes and gazed at the distant building that rose at the end of the long driveway – there was a certain air of old magnificence about the manor, a sense of past glory, and it gleamed like a tarnished black jewel against the white snow and slightly overgrown hedges that ran all around its perimeter.

That the Malfoys were allowed to keep their home, Harry knew, was no small feat, and probably more than they had ever hoped for. No one saw much of Lucius or Narcissa Malfoy these days, except when Narcissa sometimes appeared in the nearby town to buy food – no house-elves remained to do the job.

He reached out and pushed the iron gate open; it remained silent and opened with a creak. One of the Ministry's conditions of the Malfoys keeping the property had been that no enchantments were permitted to block entry to the premises. Ministry officials also had the right to make unannounced visits whenever they wanted, and they were to have full access to the house to make sure the Malfoys were staying reformed, as they had promised.

Harry trudged up the snowy driveway until he reached the front doorstep. The serpent knocker was still there, and he reached out and rapped it twice. Several moments later the door opened and Narcissa Malfoy stood in the doorway.

Narcissa looked the same; but there was something different about her since the last time Harry had seen her. Her sharp, delicate features had a certain tiredness to them, and she made Harry think a little of the Grey Lady, the ghost of Helena Ravenclaw – there, but not really.

Narcissa gazed at Harry with undisguised surprise.

"H – Harry Potter." She blinked a few times, and then seemed at a loss for words.

Arrogance and haughtiness were gone from her tone and her eyes, and now Harry realized why she and Lucius had begged so desperately to keep possession of and live in the Manor – it was the last stay of the glory they once had, all they had left.

Harry looked at Narcissa.

"I'm here to see Draco," he said. "Is he in?"

Harry saw a brief expression of uncertainty and panic in her eyes – but perhaps remembering the Ministry rule regarding unfettered access to the Manor, she seemed to think better of any objections. Harry had been at the Wizengamot during the Malfoys' trial; it was only on his testimony of how Narcissa had risked herself and lied to the Death Eaters on his behalf that the Malfoys had escaped imprisonment for their crimes.

"Yes, Draco is here." Narcissa stepped back and held the door open. "Come inside and wait, I'll get him for you."

Harry walked into the hallway as Narcissa closed the door, led him into the drawing room and then hurried up the marble stairs and disappeared from sight.

Harry looked around him, soaking in the distant familiarity of the room: Bellatrix had tortured Hermione on the rug not far from where Harry was standing now, and his gaze settled on the spot where he had leapt over an armchair to wrest the wands from Draco. He raised his eyes and saw the restored chandelier hanging from the ceiling, a blunt edge to its gleam now; as Harry looked away from the jagged points of light he thought he saw the swiftly spinning glint of a silver knife flying through the air.

He shut his eyes. It was always the hardest, remembering those who had died for him, died to protect him. Voldemort had been right about one thing: too many people had willingly laid down their lives for him, and Harry still felt a pang of guilt to think of each one, their faces etched in his mind like names on a smooth headstone.

Footsteps coming down the stairs made Harry turn, and he saw Draco descending the steps. Draco looked thinner than before, which gave his pale cheeks a sunken appearance; his blond hair was slightly tousled and he was dressed in black robes over a plain white T-shirt and dark pants.

Draco walked across the foyer and came to stand in front of Harry. His eyes were hooded.

"What do you want?" he said.

The usual sneer of superiority was gone, along with the coldness and defiance that Harry had come to associate with those eyes of clear grey. Draco ran a hand through his hair, now longer and less sleek, and Harry noticed how bony and thin his wrist was.

Harry didn't need Mad-Eye's magical eyeball to tell that Narcissa and Lucius were lurking somewhere around, out of sight but watching them and, if they had anything like Extendable Ears, listening to the conversation.

Harry spoke.

"Why don't we go up to your room and we'll talk there," he said.

He was sure he caught a flicker in Draco's eyes – of what, he wasn't sure. Then Draco turned without a word and started for the stairs, which Harry took as his cue to follow. He trailed Draco up the marble steps onto the second floor, and they walked down a carpeted corridor that brought them to a grand-looking door carved with vines that looked like decorative runes.

Draco opened the door and Harry stepped inside. The bedroom was dim, a fragile snow light coming in through a single bay window on the far side. He gazed around the room, taking in the richly coloured, now slightly dulled woven tapestries on the wall, the dark green hangings framing an ornate four-poster bed; the ceiling above them was pale white, the colour of bone.

Draco had closed the door, although he was standing against it with his hand pressed behind him. He said nothing, just gazed at Harry like he was an intruder in his room. Harry didn't really feel that way, though; there was something darkly calm about being here alone with Draco, something in him that seemed to revel in this intrusion of privacy.

Harry looked around and his eyes fell on the nightstand, where a familiar wand lay. He walked towards it, and when he picked it up and stroked a finger along its length he could sense Draco tensing. The hawthorn wand felt comfortable in his palm, under his fingers; his hand closed around it and he remembered the very last time he had cast a spell with it.

He looked up at Draco, who was eyeing him holding his wand with a guarded expression.

"Serving you well?" Harry asked.

Harry caught a wary look dart across Draco's face. "It's – been all right."

Harry set down the wand, and he thought he felt Draco exhale and relax slightly.

"So," Harry said. "Are you coming back to Hogwarts? Slytherin is still one of the houses, in case you were wondering."

The restored school, now with McGonagall as Headmistress, had recently reopened in September, the start of the new term. All students were strongly encouraged to come back to resume their studies and take their examinations; children of Death Eaters, unless they were overage and themselves standing trial, would also be accepted back into the school.

It had been strange to go back to school again after all that had happened, but if there was one thing Harry wanted to be proud of, it was properly graduating from Hogwarts. All the teachers had returned to the positions they had held when Dumbledore was Headmaster – McGonagall, Transfiguration; Flitwick, Charms; Slughorn, Potions; Trelawney and Firenze, Divination; Sprout, Herbology; Hagrid, Care of Magical Creatures.

All of them had come back, except one. He would never return.

"What's the point?" Draco's tone was edged with contempt. "Herbology? Potting nasty plants that only want to eat people's hands off? And who needs Defence Against the Dark Arts classes anymore?"

"Voldemort wasn't the first Dark wizard in history," Harry replied steadily, looking at Draco. "And he certainly won't be the last."

Draco met Harry's gaze.

"I suppose you're asking me now – as a teacher."

Harry opened his mouth, and then halted. Before the start of term, when they'd asked him to hold the fort for the time being so classes could officially resume, Harry had hesitated only briefly before agreeing; even though he was himself also a seventh year student, completing his final exams.

"I'm just filling in until they can find someone who fits the job," Harry answered. "And since Severus Snape was the last Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher I had, it's an honour to take his place even just for a while."

Draco looked away at the mention of Snape's name.

"Well," he said. "I can't think of a single reason I would want to go back to Hogwarts."

"To take your exams and finish your education, if not anything else?"

"Right." Draco let out a sharp laugh. "Because qualifications are going to do me a lot of good with all the wizarding companies lined up to hire a Malfoy."

Harry had forgotten about that. The Malfoys, once an old, prestigious wizarding family that had inspired awe and fear in many, was now nothing more than a disgraced name. Draco was right; it would be nearly impossible to find work, not as the son of a formerly prominent Death Eater.

"Not everyone loves that place like you do, you know," Draco said; he was gazing pointedly past Harry's head at the window at the other end of the room.

Harry looked sharply at him.

"They cared about you," he shot back, a dangerous edge in his tone; he knew Malfoy knew who he was talking about. "They watched over you all the time you were there, so don't you dare talk about Hogwarts like – like being there never meant anything."

Draco didn't answer. In the silence that followed, it occurred to Harry that memories of Hogwarts might have been quite different for Draco. During the good times he had his gang of sycophants around him; but when he was practically living in the Room of Requirement, desperately wrestling with a task that seemed impossible, which he had to carry out on pain of his and his family's death, he did so alone.

"Do you like it?"

Draco's eyes now met his, and there was a new, dark-bright gleam in them.

Harry looked at him. "What?"

"Do you like it," Draco repeated; there was a suppressed tone in his voice now, making it more forceful. "That my family is in your debt because you convinced the Ministry to keep us out of Azkaban? Do you like walking through this house, knowing that it was only because of you they let us keep it and live here? Is this why you came here, to make sure we knew exactly how much we owed you – or is it – did you – do you want some sort of payment?"

Harry stared at Draco, who had blurted out the last sentence like he had been fighting it back all along.

"Payment?" Harry echoed, gazing at the blond boy pressed up against the dark wooden door. "What kind of payment could you possibly give me, Malfoy?"

"It depends. What kind of payment could you possibly want?"

Draco's words ran through him like a sword; Harry felt coldness flood through him, swiftly chased by a burst of heat. He felt like he was rooted to the spot, and he couldn't move as he watched Draco peel himself off the door and move closer, finally coming to a halt right in front of him.

Harry stared into eyes of slate and that was when he knew it was true, what he had known for some time now.

Something had changed: it was, quite literally, as if he had died and awakened as a new person who was the same, mostly – but not completely. It was like the way he had felt, walking toward the Forest to what he had been sure would be his death – in those last, precious moments it wasn't the big, obvious things that he clung to but the little things, the scent of the wind and the feel of the earth, the rustle of the leaves and the taste of rain.

And ever since he came back he'd felt the perceptible shift in focus – the big things faded to the periphery and it was little things he noticed and recalled, like the way his eyes had always searched for the head of blond sleek hair at the Slytherin table, and how his heart had skipped a beat in the Great Hall that day when Draco had raised his hand as if to touch his face, just before Ron had blasted him away.

Now Harry reached out and put his hands on Draco's face – he saw a glint in Draco's eyes but the other boy didn't move away. Harry's fingers pressed into Draco's skin, which felt cold to the touch, or maybe his hands were too hot.

Draco's voice was barely a murmur as he spoke again.

"Anything you want, Potter."

Potter. There was something mockingly familiar in the shape of his name and the way Draco spoke it, his features flickering in the slant of light falling across his face. And that little dark part of his mind suddenly reared up again: wanting, wanting to take, to possess, and Harry dazedly wondered if there was still some fragment of Voldemort inside him that hadn't been exorcised. He had looked at Draco through Voldemort's eyes, the way he was looking at Draco now, and it felt like there wasn't any difference at all.

Harry leaned in and pressed his mouth to Draco's.

He felt tension but there was no resistance and Draco was just there, standing completely still, his lips cold and inert, letting Harry kiss him – but it still felt wrong, like forcing a piece of a puzzle to fit, or pushing the like poles of two magnets together.

When Harry pulled back he found himself staring into Draco's eyes, blank grey stones on a pale face. Then Draco's hands reached for the fly of Harry's jeans, and Harry saw that Draco's fingers were trembling as he clasped the zipper and pulled it downward.

It took every ounce of willpower for Harry to shove Draco away.

Draco stumbled backwards and looked at him, stung; Harry stared at him and felt the hiss of arousal in his stomach like an uncoiling snake, and he felt the sudden urge to seize Draco and push him up against the wall and kiss him senseless, taste his mouth and hear the soft, gasped breath as Harry pushed his hips forward –

Harry raised his eyes to meet Draco's.

"I don't want you to sleep with me because you have to," he said.

He saw Draco's eyes widen with surprise, and then Harry turned on the spot and Disapparated.

2: Debt

 

Christmas Day

 

Christmas with the Weasleys had become something of a tradition; Harry had arrived at the Burrow earlier in the afternoon, and now he stood at Ron's bedroom window and gazed down at the party in the garden below.

It was a little before six in the evening and guests were already milling around; a tent to one side housed the trays of food that drifted out from the kitchen, some of the larger plates clumsily dodging the people standing in the way. A light falling of real snow from the darkening sky above mingled with magical white icicles glittering in mid-air, charmed to drift just beneath the red and green lights strung from tree to tree; small fairies wearing red and white furs fluttered around and refilled glasses with a tap of their little glowing wands.

The decorations had been done by George, Ron and Ginny; although Harry couldn't help noticing there was something subdued about it all, something missing: no garden gnome painted gold and stuffed into a miniature tutu with angel wings stuck on its back. That was Fred's.

Harry gazed down at the people below. Seamus and Dean were already there, waving their empty glasses and, from the looks of it, trying to talk a fairy into giving them something more alcoholic; Oliver Wood was chatting with George, and a distance away Luna and her father were coming down the lane toward the front gate. It appeared that everyone who had helped during the war in one way or another, failings notwithstanding, was invited to this party – it was a mending of bridges, a step forward together, and it seemed like everyone was eager to be here and do just that.

And he should be down there, Harry knew, helping to get dinner ready or just talking to the people who had arrived. But he found that he was quite content to stay up here instead, gazing through the frosted glass at the snowy evening outside – and it was beautiful, but it wasn't the same.

It hadn't been the same for some time, even before he kissed Draco Malfoy in his bedroom two days ago.

The sound of the doorknob turning behind him made Harry look around – the door opened and Percy walked in, although he stopped when he saw Harry there.

"Hello, Harry," he said, looking surprised. "I thought you were downstairs with the others."

Harry shook his head. "I'll be down in a minute." He turned back to the window. "It's quite lovely from up here."

A pause; then he heard the door close and Percy moved to stand by his side at the window. Harry cut a sidelong glance at him: he and Percy had never spoken much, and right now Harry wasn't in the mood for small talk. But thankfully Percy seemed to feel the same way, and they just stood next to each other in silence, gazing down at the crowded garden below, listening to the muffled sound of chatter from downstairs.

After a long moment Percy finally spoke.

"I've missed this," he said quietly, not looking at Harry. "But now that I'm back – well." He hesitated. "Sometimes... it still feels like I don't belong."

And Percy's words made Harry think about that – that feeling trapped inside him, ever since he came back: how everything looked the same but felt different, like he was looking at his old life through new eyes that seemed to focus on all the things he'd never noticed before.

Harry turned his head to Percy.

"I know exactly what you mean," he said.

He caught a sad smile flit across Percy's face; and he knew Percy was thinking that Harry didn't know, couldn't possibly know, not really, even though he did. But Harry didn't tell him all this; and they just stood there in silence for a few minutes longer before Harry finally stepped away from the window. Percy did likewise, and together they left the room and made their way downstairs.

By the time Harry stepped out into the garden, the evening sky had darkened further and more guests had arrived. Harry waved to Neville, who was leading his grandmother to one of the seats; Amos Diggory and his wife were there as well, and Harry spotted a grumpy Ron accompanying his Aunt Muriel in through the front gate. Ron was in a gloomy mood because Hermione was in Australia spending Christmas with her parents (whose memories had been successfully restored).

Harry was about to walk into the kitchen when he looked in, suddenly thought better of it and made a beeline to the other end of the garden instead, where George was now sitting alone on one of the benches, sipping his drink.

George tilted his head and eyed Harry as he approached; he waved his wand and conjured a glass, which hovered in mid-air in front of Harry. A nearby fairy fluttered over and looked at Harry questioningly.

"What I'm having," George said, and the fairy waved her wand, looking bored, and the glass immediately filled with a colourless liquid. Harry took the glass from the air and sat down next to George.

"You know," George said shrewdly, giving Harry a pointed look, "you don't have to run the opposite direction every time you come within ten feet of her."

Harry suddenly regretted sitting down; Ginny was not a topic he particularly wanted to discuss right now, especially not with one of her brothers. To avoid a response he tossed back a sip of his drink instead, which immediately made him splutter and cough as it burned like fire down his throat – whatever George was having was definitely way too alcoholic for this early in the evening.

"I mean, if you don't want to get back together, just tell her," George continued. "We're not going to beat you up for it – well, maybe Ron might pour some ice water on you when you're sleeping, but that aside, I think –"

"It's not about that!" Harry answered, frustrated. "I mean, I just – I don't know." He trailed off and gave a formless shrug. "Everyone expects now that it's all over, we can just pick up our lives where we left off – and Ginny, I think she feels that way too, but – but it's not that simple." Harry halted, and the memory of kissing Draco suddenly flashed in his mind; he quickly pushed it away. "It just isn't –"

"It's not the same," George finished for him. "It'll never be the same. I get it, Harry, really. I do."

He paused; Harry looked at him, and it seemed like the sparkle in George's eyes had disappeared forever with that deadly flash of light in that hallway in Hogwarts, all those nights ago.

Before Harry could reply, a murmur of excitement from the people around made both of them turn in the direction of the front gate – and Harry caught sight of a glimmer of blond hair, pale against the darkness, just before the shadows of curious heads obscured his view.

"Is that – could that be –"

"Did the Weasleys invite him?"

"Surely not!"

"Looks like we have an interesting visitor," George remarked.

Harry was on his feet just as Mr Weasley came striding past him, closely followed by Ron. The guests parted to let them through, and in the frosty light of the charmed icicles Harry saw the face of the person at the gate.

Lucius Malfoy stood wearing a black travelling cloak; his long blond hair on his shoulders was white against the black fabric, and in the darkness his pale skin was almost luminous.

The last time Harry had seen Lucius Malfoy was at the Wizengamot – unlike most of the other Death Eaters, no murders had been directly linked to him and so he had been put on trial for, ironically, recruiting his own son into the Dark Lord's service.

Lucius had claimed that he had, in fact, been protecting Draco from the Dark Lord all the while; he had petitioned Voldemort not to brand his son with the Dark Mark, on the pretext of making Draco fully prove his worth before receiving the master's seal. Voldemort had agreed, and Draco had been spared.

At that point the Chief Warlock presiding over the court had turned to Draco and told him to stand and confirm if this were indeed true. Draco, who had been sitting quietly beside his mother in the front row, had gotten to his feet, white-faced.

"It is true," he had answered tightly, before rolling back his sleeve to expose his left forearm, which was pale and unmarked. A hushed whisper had rippled across the courtroom – and Harry remembered staring at Draco's arm from the other side of the room, feeling a strange flutter in his stomach that he hadn't understood at that time.

Now Harry watched Lucius Malfoy raise his chin slightly as he spoke a few words to Mr Weasley; he was nearly a head taller than Arthur, and even from this distance the hostility between the two men was palpable. Then Mr Weasley turned around with a frown; Ron looked back as well, and both their gazes sought out Harry, who was still standing in the corner of the garden.

Ron left his father's side and bounded over to him.

"Harry!" Ron said, looking at him quizzically. "Lucius Malfoy says he wants to speak to you – what's going on?"

Harry was quite sure he knew why Lucius was here, but he gave a shrug.

"Guess I'll find out," he said, and he and Ron walked toward the gate where Lucius and Arthur stood.

When Lucius Malfoy caught sight of him approaching, a flicker passed across his eyes; he took a step forward.

"Mr Potter." He extended a black-gloved hand; Harry didn't take it, and after a moment, Lucius let his hand fall to his side. "I was hoping to speak with you –" he glanced at Ron and Mr Weasley, and then looked at Harry again, "in private."

"Forget it!" Ron said loudly. "You have anything to say to Harry, you can say it right here in front of us –"

"No," Harry found himself blurting out; Ron and Mr Weasley looked at him, startled, and Harry felt a flush of heat on his cheeks.

Across from them, Lucius merely raised an eyebrow.

"Harry, he might be trying to hex you!" Ron whispered fiercely. "Imperius, or –"

"Rest assured, young Weasley, I have no intention of doing harm to him," Lucius interrupted; Ron turned red and fell silent. "Even if I had the idea, which I most certainly do not, I would not choose to do so with this many witnesses present, or in front of the house of a Ministry Head of Department," he curtly directed these words at Mr Weasley, "no less."

"All the same," Mr Weasley replied coldly. "If you want to speak to Harry alone I would – as a Ministry representative, of course – require that you first surrender your wand."

There was a tense pause; suddenly the sharp cold of the winter night seemed to freeze into invisible spikes in the air between them.

"Very well," Lucius finally said, his voice thin and brittle.

As Lucius reached into his cloak Ron yanked Harry by the arm, pulling him aside.

"Are you barking mad, Harry?" Ron hissed. "This is Lucius Malfoy! The only Death Eater who isn't locked up in Azkaban – this could be a trap, he could –"

"Ron, it's all right!" Harry cut in firmly, laying a hand on Ron's shoulder and pushing him back. "Look – I know what I'm doing, just – let me handle this, okay?"

He turned back to see Mr Weasley taking Lucius's wand; before anyone else could object Harry quickly let himself out through the gate and stepped in the direction of a copse of trees a distance away.

Lucius followed silently; when they were well out of earshot of the others at the party, Harry turned around to face him.

"What do you want?"

Lucius looked at him; his pale eyes, so much like Draco's, seemed to gleam in the darkness.

"You came to see Draco two days ago," Lucius said.

Harry had been prepared for this, and he had his answer ready.

"I wanted to know if he had plans to return to Hogwarts," he replied evenly.

"Yes – that was what Draco said as well." Lucius paused thoughtfully, and a flicker crossed his eyes, like a passing shadow. "But I assume that was not the only purpose of your visit – am I right, Mr Potter?"

Harry tensed. Had Draco told his father that Harry had kissed him? The mere thought of Lucius knowing made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck prickle. But before he could speculate any further, Lucius continued speaking.

"You should know that Draco intends to settle the debt he owes you," Lucius said; he halted, and then took a breath. "And it is – imperative that you allow him to make payment."

Harry frowned at Lucius. "What payment?"

"You saved his life. He owes you a Debt," and something in the way Lucius said the word made it appear capitalised even in Harry's mind. Lucius's eyes raked searchingly over Harry's face. "Surely you understand what that means."

In his mind Harry ran through all the wizarding terms he'd come across – but he didn't recall ever hearing anything about Debts. Then again, Harry hadn't known about Unbreakable Vows until Ron had explained it to him.

Lucius apparently gathered likewise; he narrowed his eyes at Harry.

"I find it hard to believe you do not know the nature of the Debt I speak of," there was a distinct edge in Lucius's voice, "especially after what happened with Wormtail."

Harry blinked; and at the mention of Wormtail, the words that Dumbledore had once spoken now echoed in his mind, a familiar voice from the past:

When one wizard saves another wizard’s life, it creates a certain bond between them, Dumbledore had said to him, all those years ago. This is magic at its deepest, its most impenetrable...

Something else occurred to Harry.

"But it doesn't make sense," he said with a frown. "I've saved other people's lives, I'm sure that doesn't mean all of them –"

"This is no ordinary debt, Potter!" Lucius cut in sharply. "The Debt only comes into effect when one person saves another's life when he has no reason to do so. It is not something owed by friends, family or allies – but by enemies and traitors." Lucius's mouth twisted without humour. "You can say it is a worse punishment than dying; to owe your life to someone who should have let you die – but didn't."

It took a moment for Lucius's words to sink in – then the pieces started falling into place, and now Harry recalled what else Dumbledore had told him:

Pettigrew owes his life to you... You have sent Voldemort a deputy who is in your debt... The time may come when you will be very glad you saved Pettigrew’s life.

"I was the one who found Wormtail dead in the cellar," Lucius continued; his voice was oddly strained. "And I saw – I saw what you did to him, Potter." He broke off, and there was a wild look in his eyes and his voice was higher-pitched. "I saw the way you invoked the Debt that he owed you, how – how you made him strangle himself to death with his own hand!"

Harry stared at Lucius in disbelief. He opened his mouth, but no words emerged; and with a sharp, lurching jolt his own words echoed in his mind, his voice choked with anger and contempt:

You're going to kill me? After I saved your life? You owe me, Wormtail!

Harry suddenly felt sick, sick to his stomach. Was this what Dumbledore had meant when he said that one day Harry would be very glad that he'd saved Pettigrew's life? Is this what Dumbledore had foreseen, how Pettigrew would eventually pay what he owed, how – how Harry would one day claim the Debt?

And Lucius had assumed that Harry had deliberately forced Pettigrew to strangle himself with his own metal hand. That wasn't true, Harry had tried to stop it, but those words: You owe me, Wormtail! – they must have invoked the Debt. He remembered staring in horror at the silver hand moving of its own volition, but somehow – could he somehow have controlled it, commanded it to turn on and choke the life out of its owner, in final payment of a debt from years ago?

"I know you had no reason to save Draco's life," Lucius said; now there was a quaver in his voice. "And I know you feel the connection, the same connection that Draco feels – that's why you came to see him."

Harry's palms were cold, clammy, and he closed his hands into fists. His mind was spinning so fast that he couldn't think, couldn't process everything that Lucius was telling him – and Harry didn't want to believe him, but suddenly it all made so much sense. Why he had felt different all these months, felt this new, inexplicable attraction to Draco; why he had shown up at Malfoy Manor the other day to see him, without even really being sure what he was there for until he was alone with Draco, feeling the hot-cold touch of Draco's skin against his hands – and when he finally kissed Draco it felt like the one thing, the only thing he had really wanted.

Lucius's voice broke into his thoughts.

"The only other way that a Debt can be paid, apart from in death," Lucius said quietly, "is for the debtor to give something to the one who saved him – something that person really wants, that only the debtor can give him. Anything less will not do." A pause. "Once that is given, and received, then the Debt will be deemed paid and the bond will be broken."

Harry looked at him. Lucius's face was very pale, especially in the darkness all around them.

"I know what you want, Potter," Lucius said in a low voice; and there was a certain resignation in his tone that sent a spike of defensiveness through Harry.

"You don't know anything about me," Harry snapped through gritted teeth.

"I've seen you," Lucius's lips barely moved as he spoke. "I've seen the way you look at him – I know what it is you want from him. And I have come here to ask you to take it," Lucius's voice faltered for the briefest moment, "and let Draco pay his debt to you – in full."

Harry stared at Lucius; and for a moment he felt as if Wormtail's metal hand were choking him again, making his breath catch inside his lungs. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, what – what Lucius was telling him to do.

When Harry finally spoke, his tone was thinly controlled; but what emotion he was suppressing, even he was not sure.

"Tell me something," Harry said, gazing straight at Lucius. "Do you love your son?"

Lucius looked thrown by the question.

"Of – of course I do," he answered, sounding distinctly ruffled. "What makes you –"

"Because," Harry said in a hard voice, "I get the idea that bartering him around like this doesn't seem to bother you at all."

Harry caught a raw flinch of emotion across Lucius's face, although it was gone as quickly as it had arisen; and when Lucius spoke again, his voice was surprisingly steady.

"I don't want Draco to end up like Pettigrew," he said, looking directly into Harry's eyes. "And I would rather he spend one night repaying his debt to you than live for the rest of his life at your mercy."

Harry gazed at Lucius; and the crashing stillness that followed Lucius's words made all his thoughts scatter, except for one. Harry's mind suddenly stopped spinning, and now it was perfectly clear what Lucius was offering him, asking him to do.

"I have just one request to make," Lucius continued; his eyes shone in the darkness, and now there was a certain light of desperation in them. "Don't – don't hurt him. Please. He has already been through enough."

The memory of Draco's piteous scream, nearly drowned by the roar of the cursed fire, now rose in Harry's mind; and he tried to think about what had made him wheel around and dive into the midst of the devouring inferno, reaching out for Draco's outstretched arm –

"I saved his life," Harry retorted, glaring at Lucius. "What makes you think I'd want to hurt him?"

Harry caught a flicker in Lucius's eyes, like smoke and shadows; the other man opened his mouth, but then hesitated.

And in that split second Harry suddenly knew exactly why Lucius had come all the way here to make this one request – and this realization made that fissure of darkness inside him roar to life again.

"Maybe because," Harry said, answering his own question, "you tried to kill us in the Department of Mysteries – and when your pal Greyback hauled us into your house, you were only too pleased to turn us over to Voldemort just so you could get back in his good graces." Harry paused; he felt the anger pulsing inside him, black and swelling, and he continued relentlessly, "Now that the tables are turned – well, maybe you're afraid that hurting Draco might be the perfect way I can get back at you?"

Harry halted, and he allowed himself a full moment to relish the dismay he saw on Lucius's face. Harry felt the sides of his mouth twist upward; and abruptly his mind became crystal clear, gleaming with fine-edged clarity, like the dark glint of a blade, like the flesh memory of Draco's mouth against his.

Harry took a step back, and he held Lucius's gaze as he spoke.

"It looks like Draco's always the one paying the price for your mistakes, Lucius."

With that Harry turned away, but not before seeing the shattered expression on Lucius Malfoy's face.

He strode back toward the party and pushed his way past the gate; he walked past Ginny and Luna without stopping, although Ron caught up with him just as he reached the open front doorway.

"What did Lucius Malfoy want?" Ron demanded, casting a distrustful glance in the direction of the front gate. "What did he tell you?"

Harry shrugged.

"Nothing I didn't already know," he said offhandedly.

And it wasn't a lie, not really – because now he saw more clearly than ever why Voldemort had chosen to use Draco to punish Lucius. It was just so easy, so simple; and now a strange, soaring feeling rushed through him, which was disturbingly like the heady sense of control he felt each time he used one of the Unforgivable Curses.

There was a time, Harry thought, that Unforgivable Curses had been punishable by a mandatory life sentence in Azkaban. But the war had changed that when even the good side turned to using these once-forbidden Curses.

A necessary evil, it had been called; even though deep down inside Harry knew there was no such thing, that no evil was ever necessary.

They had all been tainted by the war, by the darkness, by having to choose between killing and being killed; and they had all made their choices, even though a part of Harry sometimes wished that he could uncast those spells, unspeak those curses. But no – they would stay with him forever.

He remembered what Bellatrix Lestrange had said about the Curses, the first time he had tried to use Cruciatus on her: You need to mean them, Potter! You need to really want to cause pain – to enjoy it –

Somewhere along the way he had learned to mean them; and somewhere inside him each Unforgivable Curse he had ever uttered had left its mark: the Crucio of pain, the Imperio of dominance. These spells were dark and terrible and great, and Harry had made them work for him, had felt their power twisting and torquing under his hand.

But now Harry knew he didn't need to cast a single spell to get what he wanted.

It was already his for the taking.

3: Years

 

Eve of New Year's Eve

 

Snow was falling steadily outside the first floor window of number twelve, Grimmauld Place – it was early afternoon and the drawing room was filled with a fragile sort of light, which was both bright and empty at the same time. The chandelier gleamed from the ceiling above, polished to a shine; even though Harry had set Kreacher free, the elf still snuck back into the house every other night and made sure the place was kept spiffing clean.

Harry had planned to stay at the Burrow after the Christmas party, all the way until New Year's Day. But after three days of enduring Ron's dour Hermione-less mood and bumping into Ginny at almost every turn, he'd finally had enough. He made his excuses and returned two nights ago by Floo (as Harry stepped into the Weasleys' fireplace, George had clapped him on the back and arched his eyebrow meaningfully).

When he wasn't in Hogwarts, Harry had been living on his own here in Grimmauld Place. The Fidelius Charm had been lifted and it was no longer Unplottable; now it was just a normal old terraced house in a run-down square in London. And it was... well, it wasn't home, but it was the closest thing to it and Harry liked it here. It was quiet, for one, and he had the whole place to himself; and being alone meant he didn't have to make sure he was always the person everyone wanted him to be.

Harry lay sprawled on the drawing room sofa, his legs stretched out; the Daily Prophet lay beside him, although he was not reading it. He folded his hands behind his head and looked at the Black family tree tapestry on the wall – he gazed at the charred hole where Sirius's name used to be, next to Regulus. Sirius had been sixteen when he ran away to stay at the Potters'; even younger than Harry was now.

Harry's eyes followed the snaking vines on the tapestry to Bellatrix's name; he skipped over that quickly, jumping past the burn mark beside it to Narcissa's name. The double line of gold embroidery linked her with Lucius Malfoy, and a single vertical gold line between them led to –

Harry looked away; he sat up and closed his eyes.

Ever since Lucius had told him about Draco's plans to repay the Debt, Harry had not been able to get Draco out of his mind. And sometimes Harry would find himself imagining different scenarios of Draco finding him, coming to him and – and giving him what he wanted.

After all, Draco had already guessed what that was – when they had been alone in his bedroom Draco had reached out to undo Harry's jeans, and it had felt like an eternity before Harry had pushed him away. And Lucius – I've seen the way you look at him, he had said, and the thought that Lucius also knew made a rush of heat burn on Harry's face.

Because he did. He wanted.

Harry opened his eyes and got to his feet; turning his back on the tapestry, he walked towards the window, which overlooked the main street outside. A few stray pedestrians hurried past, huddled beneath snow-flecked umbrellas, not slowing to look at the old house that, not so long ago, hadn't even been visible to wizarding folk.

That was when he suddenly saw it – a shimmer of blond, so pale that it seemed to blend with the whiteness all around, just before the dark cloak appeared as well and a familiar, thin figure was standing just outside the snow-covered front yard of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Harry blinked; his fingers tightened on the edge of the window sill as he gazed down at Draco Malfoy, who was now looking up and down the nearly empty street around him. To anyone else he could've been an ordinary person pausing to check his bearings – but it was the little things that always stood out, and Harry saw the way Draco was gripping his wand tightly in his right hand, how he drew his cloak closer around himself as he raised his eyes and looked up at the house in front of him.

Harry's heart skipped a beat – because at that moment Draco was staring up at the drawing room window, right at him. But maybe the snow was falling too fast and the glass pane was frosted over, because Draco's eyes were unseeing as they took in the exterior of the terraced house that was awkwardly sandwiched between numbers eleven and thirteen.

Draco stood where he was for a moment longer. Finally he started up the front path, trudging slowly as his black boots sank into the ankle-deep snow with each step. Harry stayed at the window gazing down at Draco, transfixed, until the sound of knocking from downstairs finally made him snap out of it.

He dashed out of the drawing room, taking the stairs two at a time; when he reached the front door he opened it with such abruptness that the silver serpent knocker clapped loudly on its own and Draco, whose hand was raised in mid-knock, stared at him, startled.

Harry looked at Draco. His usually pale cheeks were now slightly flushed from the cold; a pale-coloured scarf was wrapped around his neck. Harry's sudden appearance had sent a flicker of panic across those grey eyes, although it disappeared as quickly as it had arisen.

"Hello, Potter," Draco said; now there was an expression of forced determination on his face and his voice was carefully wiped clean of emotion. "Can I come in?"

Draco's lips were almost white, and Harry realised that the wind was bitterly cold against his own face as well.

"Oh. Yes," Harry said. He moved aside to let Draco step past him, and then closed the door behind them.

An uncomfortable stillness followed. Draco just stood there, a few steps inside the door; he was staring down at the floor, and he made no move to remove his scarf or cloak. There were snowflakes glistening in his hair, but Harry couldn't bring himself to reach out and brush them away.

"How did you find this place?" Harry finally asked, breaking the silence.

Draco looked at him. "I Apparated."

"I know," Harry said, and he saw Draco raise an eyebrow. "What I mean is, how did you know that I'm here?"

Draco reached inside his pocket and took out his wand.

"It still recognises you as its owner," he said, holding up the hawthorn wand for Harry to see. "Apparating to wherever you are is probably the one thing it can do best for me." He paused, and there was a dry tone in his voice as he added, "Guess my wand's not the only one who can't get out of your control that easily."

Something in Draco's words, in his self-deprecating tone, sent a pang through Harry's chest – and suddenly, standing here with Draco in the darkened entrance hall, it felt like everything was spinning backwards and while he had known so clearly what he wanted before, now he wasn't so sure what to do next.

"Why don't you take off your cloak," Harry found himself saying; he immediately saw Draco tense and realised with a jolt how that must have sounded. But before he could say anything else Draco turned away from him, unwound his scarf and shrugged off his cloak to reveal a dark green long-sleeved sweater and black pants underneath.

When Draco turned back to face him, Harry could hear that he was breathing quicker than normal – and somehow that reminded Harry of Narcissa, her fast breathing and the pounding of her heart against his ribs as she leaned over him in the Forest and whispered –

And suddenly something occurred to Harry, like a bolt of lightning out of the blue: Narcissa had saved his life. She didn't have to lie to Voldemort, not even after Harry had told her that Draco was still alive in the castle; she had no reason to save Harry's life, but she did.

"Malfoy," Harry spoke; he waited for Draco to raise his eyes to meet his. "I saved your life, but your mother saved mine. She didn't have to." He paused and took a deep breath. " So – we're even. You don't owe me anything."

And Harry felt a slight twinge to say it, you don't owe me anything; like something was lost, like a side of him wanted desperately not to let this go, even though another part felt relieved that the burden of the Debt had been lifted away.

But to his surprise Draco let out a sharp laugh, which echoed unpleasantly in the enclosed hall.

"I know my father talked to you about the Debt," he answered, an edge in his voice. "And yes, my mother did save your life – but then you testified at trial so we didn't get sent to Azkaban, and my parents got to keep the house." Draco halted; he took a step forward and looked Harry directly in the eyes. "That was something only you could've done – so your Debt to my mother has been paid."

Harry stared at Draco. It felt like his thoughts were being thrown into reverse and then back forward again – nothing was making much sense anymore, especially not with Draco standing so close to him.

"So you're saying..." Harry began, but Draco cut him off.

"I'm saying that if you want me to get down on my knees and thank you right now," Draco paused significantly, letting his gaze slide down to Harry's jeans, "I can do that."

The blatant suggestion in Draco's voice, the way he lowered his eyes – it sent a rush of arousal right through Harry, making his crotch feel uncomfortably tight. He stayed rooted to the spot as Draco carelessly dropped his cloak and scarf on the floor and moved closer to him; then Draco lifted his hand, and only when Harry realised Draco was holding his wand did he reach out and catch Draco's wrist, jerking it back.

"What are you doing?" Harry demanded.

"Don't worry," Draco said; the sides of his mouth curled upward. "I don't think I could hex you even if I wanted to." He paused, and a wry tone crept into his voice as he added, "I saw what you did to Wormtail, so – I really wouldn't risk it."

"I didn't do anything to him!" Harry blurted out.

"Oh, so you can kill people without even trying to." Draco tilted his head. "That's just so much more comforting, Potter."

Draco took another step forward; now he was so close that Harry could see his lashes fanning darkly against his pale skin. His hand pushed against Harry's grip, until the tip of his wand was pressed against Harry's chest. Harry felt his heartbeat pounding, and he wasn't surprised if Draco could feel it too.

"It's just a Truth Charm – not as good as Veritaserum, but it gets the job done." Draco paused, gazing at Harry steadily. "I came here to give you what you want – so I'm going to make sure that's exactly what I do."

Harry stared at Draco; and for the first time it felt like the tables had been turned and Draco was the one leading this game. Yet at the back of Harry's mind he knew he still had control, and Draco had to do exactly what he wanted –

"Veritas," Draco whispered, and a weak, silvery-gold light burst from his wand, flowing into Harry's chest.

Harry closed his eyes and sucked in a sharp breath as he felt a sudden cool, tingling sensation enter his chest and spread through him; it was not unlike the relaxed, floating feeling when under Imperius, only this felt denser, more grounded. And along with it came a rush of images, fast-forwarding through his mind so quickly that he could only catch snatches, although these were vivid enough: he saw himself, kissing Draco, shoving him up against a wall; then he was running his hands up Draco's sides, pinning him down on a bed, naked, sliding forward and –

Draco lifted his wand away, breaking the spell; the tide of images abruptly disappeared and Harry's eyes flashed open. He blinked, dazed, and when he looked into Draco's eyes again they were hard, cold, and Harry knew exactly what Draco had also seen.

"Just so we're both clear about it," Draco said relentlessly, and then he leaned in and kissed Harry.

The suddenness of Draco's mouth on his made Harry take a couple of steps backwards; Draco followed, and when Harry felt his back bump against a wall, it was as if something in his mind clicked and everything fell into place.

In a flash their positions were reversed – he pushed Draco backwards, shoving him up against the closed front door. Harry held Draco's face in both hands and when he kissed him, hard, it felt like breathing for the first time.

Draco let out a muffled sound against Harry's mouth – and then he was kissing Harry back, his hands on Harry's shoulders, and Harry felt the bony edges of Draco's wiry frame trapped between him and the door behind them. He didn't break the kiss, couldn't, and when he bit down on Draco's lip he could feel Draco arch against the door, into him, and Harry pulled him forward, full against his own body.

His hands found the edge of Draco's sweater and slid beneath it, finding a T-shirt under that; his fingers impatiently pulled up the cotton fabric, but when his hand touched bare skin Draco suddenly jerked away – only that he couldn't move backwards with the door behind him, so he twisted sideways instead and ended up knocking over the troll's leg umbrella stand, which clattered onto Harry's foot with a loud, resounding crash.

Harry let out a yell of pain, jerking his foot from under the fallen troll's leg, just as the curtains hiding the portrait of Sirius's mother flew open and she began screaming. (These were the two items that he had failed to permanently remove from the entrance hall, no matter how he tried; somehow they just seemed to find their way back to their original places.)

Draco jumped back, startled by the commotion; Harry reached over and yanked the curtains shut again, although Mrs Black still continued to screech from behind them.

"Come on," Harry said with a grimace. "Let's go upstairs."

He took Draco's hand and pulled him towards the stairs; Draco followed, and Harry led him past the first and second floor until they reached the topmost landing where there were only two doors.

Harry slept in Sirius's bedroom whenever he was here; now he reached for the doorknob, but then he remembered something that made him halt.

There was that photograph on the wall, the only wizarding picture in Sirius's room, the one he still spent hours gazing at: his father and Sirius and Lupin and Pettigrew in their Hogwarts days, standing arm in arm, smiling and laughing.

And suddenly Harry didn't want to bring Draco into Sirius's room, not with his father and Sirius and Lupin in the photograph watching them, watching him as he – Harry couldn't bear the thought.

He abruptly turned away from the door and bumped into Draco, who was standing behind him.

"Over there," Harry said, pointing towards Regulus's room instead.

Draco looked at Sirius's nameplate on the door, and Harry wondered if Draco suspected the reason why he didn't want to go in. But then Draco just turned and followed Harry towards the second door.

The door was unlocked, and Harry opened it. Regulus's bedroom was exactly the way it had been the first time Harry found it, only that now all the surfaces were completely free of dust, as if someone cleaned it nearly every other day (which was true, thanks to Kreacher). Snowy afternoon light filtered in through the frosted window, filling the room with faded glow and pale shadows.

Harry stepped inside the room; Draco followed, although he halted a few steps over the threshold. From the corner of his eye Harry saw Draco looking around, taking in the Black family crest painted over the bed along with the words Toujours Pur, the banners of emerald and silver draped all over the room.

"Slytherin colours." There was sharp, bitter tone in Draco's voice. "Very nice, Potter. I see you've decorated for the occasion."

Draco's words stung; and with a jolt Harry realised how this must all seem to Draco, to be taken into a room with his mother's family crest painted above the bed and his house colours covering all the walls. And Draco thought Harry had purposely done it to humiliate him.

"All these were already here," Harry answered, although the words felt dull, meaningless. "This room belonged to Sirius's brother, Regulus," he added, pointing at the photograph of the Slytherin Quidditch team on the wall. "He played Seeker."

To his surprise, Draco walked over to the wall to take a closer look at the photograph. Harry moved to stand behind him, and he had a feeling that Draco knew exactly which boy Regulus was – the one in the middle of the front row, where the Seeker always sat.

Harry gazed at the blond head in front of him; and he wondered if Draco was thinking about the same thing he was at this moment: all those years, those Quidditch games they played against each other, both looking for something that only one of them could get.

And the same thing was happening now, like a replay of a match that had played out repeatedly over the years – only this time the outcome had already been decided.

"Draco," Harry began.

Draco turned sharply at the sound of his name; for a split moment there was a real flicker of emotion in his eyes and Harry felt his chest tighten. It was the strangest feeling, like pleasurable pain.

Harry took a deep breath.

"Listen," he said, looking directly at Draco. "I know that –"

But before he could continue Draco shook his head, once – then Draco's mouth was on his and Draco was kissing him, more urgently this time, like it was something he was determined to do no matter what. In response Harry's hands seemed to move on their own accord; they found their place on Draco's waist and pulled him closer as he kissed him back.

And Harry had thought of this, what it would feel like to kiss Draco; not just lately, but even before that, and not just kiss him, really hold him down and press their mouths together until they were both panting and breathless. The first time that Harry clearly remembered thinking about this was on the Hogwarts Express at the beginning of their fifth year, when Draco had been made a prefect and Harry had not.

Manners, Potter, or I'll have to give you a detention, Draco had said with a smirk. You see, I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments.

And Harry had wanted to shove Draco up against the compartment door and hit him or kiss him, at that time he had not known which; maybe both. Only the presence of Crabbe and Goyle and Hermione and Ron around them had stopped him.

But they were alone now – and Draco's body was pressed up against him, Draco's mouth hot and wet against his own, and Harry felt his own fingers digging into Draco's arms, punishing him, holding him so hard that he felt Draco wince. And he wanted this, Harry realised; he'd wanted it for longer than he even knew.

When Draco finally pulled back, his eyes were dilated and they were both breathing hard. Draco's lips were wet and glistening, and his tongue flickered out to lick them; probably more out of nervousness than anything else, although the sight of that sent a rush of heat straight to Harry's crotch.

Draco took a step back. He turned aside and Harry watched as he pulled his sweater over his head, tossing it aside on the floor; he was wearing a white T-shirt underneath. He kicked off his boots and undid his pants, stepping out of them, although he didn't take off his underwear. He turned back to Harry.

"Come on," Draco murmured; he took Harry by the wrist and led him towards the bed.

Harry reached out and kissed him eagerly, and now Draco let him take the lead. Harry pushed him down on the bed, and Draco broke the kiss so he could lean back against the headboard. Harry moved in, supporting himself on hands and knees on either side of Draco's body. Now they were face to face, Harry's body above Draco's – and Harry leaned in to kiss him again, but this time Draco turned his face away.

Harry stopped; he felt a rush of disappointment. Close to him Draco's breathing was quick and shallow, and Harry saw that Draco was determinedly not looking at him.

I want you to kiss me and mean it, Harry thought in his mind; it was only when he saw Draco's head snap up to look at him, eyes narrowed, did he realise he had actually said those words out loud.

"You can't ask for that," Draco said, and the forcefulness in his voice seemed to surprise them both.

"I don't think you're the one who gets to decide what I ask for, Draco," Harry shot back; the words came out harsher and colder than he had intended, and the moment they were out he instantly regretted them.

He saw a flash in Draco's eyes, a mix of anger and helplessness; Draco looked at him, and there was a faded, hurt pride in his eyes as he spoke.

"Don't," he said; his eyes were bright in the dimness and his voice was intense. "Don't make this harder than it is."

Harry stared at him – and suddenly the moment crashed around him and there was no vindication, no glory, no satisfaction in being here, knowing that he could make Draco do whatever he wanted him to.

Harry reached out and brushed his hand against the side of Draco's face – he felt Draco flinch a little, but then force himself to remain still.

And it was plainly obvious that Draco didn't want this, not the way Harry did – and all of a sudden Harry didn't want it to be like this. This – whatever it was between him and Draco, like a game they'd played in the skies, across the Great Hall and in the classrooms and hallways, a game which had begun long before Harry reached through the flames and rescued Draco from being burned alive. All these years, like a Quidditch game in which the Snitch still hadn't been caught –

And he'd had many chances to catch the Snitch, as it were – but Harry hadn't, because a part of him didn't want this game to end, didn't want to know what would happen when it finally did.

And suddenly Harry knew – he knew exactly why he had saved Draco's life in that burning room, why he'd stopped that Death Eater from hurting Draco; and it felt like something he should've known, deep down inside, all along.

He took Draco's face in his hands; he felt Draco tense and inhale a sharp breath. Harry leaned in and pressed his mouth to Draco's, one last time, before moving back.

"I told you before," Harry said, looking straight into Draco's eyes. "I don't want you to sleep with me because you have to." He paused. "And you don't. Have to."

Draco stared at him. "What?"

Harry took a deep breath before he spoke.

"There's – there's no Debt."

Draco's mouth was slightly open, but no sound emerged; he continued to stare at Harry, as if too stunned to speak.

"I saved you because I wanted to," Harry said. "It wasn't difficult. It wasn't even something I had to think about – and I'd do it again, if I had to." He halted to draw a shaky breath before he continued, "And I suppose that's not how a Debt works: when you save someone because you just can't stop caring what happens to them."

There was silence. Draco was still gazing at him in disbelief, although now Harry could see the dawn of understanding spreading across Draco's face.

"So you're saying," said Draco, his voice so low and tight that it barely rose above the stillness in the room, "what you mean is – there was never a Debt?"

Harry didn't say anything, but his silence clearly spoke his answer. He felt a sinking feeling in his chest as he saw Draco's grey eyes darken.

"And all this time – you – you knew?" Anger made Draco's voice rise sharply. "You knew there wasn't a Debt, but you still let me come in here – come to you and – and –"

Harry looked at Draco.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

The silence that followed seemed to freeze over, colder than the winter chill outside; and Harry felt helpless as he gazed at Draco, who was still sitting rigidly against the headboard, a fist of bedcovers tightly clenched in his right hand. And his eyes, his eyes were the worst – Harry watched the anger in them drain away, replaced by a hard, cold emptiness that felt more punishing than anything else.

Finally Draco moved. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up. Without a word he turned away from Harry and began to put his clothes on. Harry stayed where he was; he stared at Draco's turned back, and he didn't know what to say.

When Draco was dressed, he headed towards the bedroom door and opened it; without even a backward glance he walked out, not even bothering to close the door behind him. Harry listened to his footsteps echo and fade down the stairs – then came the distant sound of the front door slamming shut, followed by the familiar screeching from Mrs Black's portrait.

Harry leapt to his feet and darted towards the bedroom window. He looked through the misted glass pane, down at the snowy front yard below; but Draco was gone.

4: Foes

 

Classes at Hogwarts resumed in January. Hermione had returned from Australia with her parents, and Ron was in a cheerful mood again; everyone else also seemed pleased to be back to school and there was never a dull moment in the Gryffindor common room, which often turned into a testing ground for the latest Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes samples that George sent.

As Harry watched the other Gryffindors crowd around Ron, Seamus and Dean – the older boys eagerly cheering and whooping, the younger students hanging back with nervous curiosity (for not every experiment ended neatly for all present) – it was like everything was almost back to the way it used to be. Harry smiled a little as he passed them by and climbed out of the portrait hole.

He found himself spending most of his free time in the library – the constant noise and chatter in the common room made it hard to work, and he actually did have a lot of that to do. Seventh year Transfiguration and Potions were more advanced and difficult than he'd imagined, especially when he was still rusty from the year-long break from school. And on top of everything else, Harry had to spend time preparing for the Defence Against the Dark Arts classes he was teaching.

Hermione and Ron would sometimes join him in the library; which Harry didn't mind, except that Ron had developed an annoying habit of abandoning his homework in favour of musing aloud on Quidditch strategies.

Professor McGonagall had decided that the usual Quidditch Cup matches would be put on hold this year, but the houses were still putting together their own teams and organising friendly matches. Harry had declined to participate in this unofficial season, so Ron had taken over as Gryffindor captain. The Gryffindor-Slytherin match was coming up in early February – and Ron seemed determined to win the game at all costs, which included tirelessly harassing Harry to play Seeker.

"For the hundredth time, Ron," Harry looked up from his Potions essay wearily. "No."

Ron threw his hands in the air. "What's the matter with you, Harry? This is Quidditch! You love Quidditch. Remember?"

Ron's words sent a pang through Harry. Ron was right – he loved playing Quidditch, or at least, he used to. But now it all seemed so... trivial, pointless. It was just another thing that had changed, another thing he loved that had been taken away from him; and it made him feel sad.

"I'm sorry, Ron," Harry said with a sigh. "I really can't. I've got no time for practice –"

"But you don't need to practice, Harry!" Ron protested. "That's the beautiful part! All you need to do is get on your broomstick, fly up there and catch the Snitch, like you always do!"

"Not always," Harry reminded him.

Ron made a face and threw himself back in his chair.

"I bet you'd do it if Malfoy was playing for Slytherin," he said reproachfully, and Harry stabbed the dot on an 'i' so hard that his quill made a hole in the parchment. From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione glance up in surprise.

Harry looked at Ron.

"And why," Harry said, concentrating on keeping his voice even, "would I do it because of Malfoy?"

"Oh, you know," Ron shrugged. "You and him have this... thing."

Harry's chest constricted so sharply it hurt.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Ron," he said flatly. "That's absolute rubbish."

"No, no it isn't," Ron countered, sitting forward and making an airy sort of gesture. "It's true. You and Malfoy, you two have got this... thing going on. Competitive. Obsessive, even. Like the only thing better than catching the Snitch is beating Malfoy to it." He paused and grinned. "And you love that, Harry, you can't deny it."

Harry gripped his quill so tightly that the barbs near the stem got bent out of shape.

"Harry," Hermione spoke up. "You're getting ink all over your homework."

Harry looked down and saw the spreading black mark from the point where his quill was still anchored. He quickly lifted the tip off the parchment and busied himself cleaning up his ruined essay so he didn't have to look at Ron or Hermione.

Like the only thing better than catching the Snitch is beating Malfoy to it...

He didn't want to think about Draco, about what happened in Regulus's bedroom in Grimmauld Place on the eve of New Year's Eve – but now Ron's words sent the images rushing through Harry's mind all over again. And he couldn't stop them, couldn't shut out the flesh memory of Draco kissing him, kissing him back –

"I've got to go." Harry stood up abruptly enough to make his thoughts scatter; Ron and Hermione looked at him in surprise and he quickly added, "I've got to, uh, give McGonagall my lesson plan for the Defence Against the Dark Arts classes this term."

He stuffed his parchment and books into his bag, and then hurried out of the library before Ron or Hermione could say anything.

 

*

 

"All right," Harry said. "Today we'll be having a practical lesson."

He stood at the front of the classroom; this term the Gryffindor and Slytherin first years were having Defence Against the Dark Arts class together. On his right the Gryffindors were watching him attentively, while on his left he could see a few Slytherins trying their best to look bored.

"And while we're at it," Harry continued. "I'm going to introduce something else you all might've heard about – wizard's duels."

This sent a twitter of excitement across the classroom; even the Slytherins sat up straight, looking interested.

"But first, we're going to practice the spell we talked about last lesson." Harry paused and looked at the class. "Can anyone tell me what that is?"

A few hands on the right side of the classroom flew up. Harry pointed at one of the Gryffindor girls – he was still hopeless at remembering their names.

"The Disarming Spell," she answered confidently; she reminded him of Hermione. "Expelliarmus."

"Correct," Harry said with a nod. "Expelliarmus is a particularly useful spell to disarm your enemy – if he doesn't have a wand, he can't exactly duel until he gets it back – yes?"

A hand had gone up on the Slytherin side of the classroom.

"You said enemy," the Slytherin boy pointed out; he had an upturned nose and alert eyes. "Does that mean wizard's duels only take place between enemies?"

Harry considered this.

"Well, people who challenge each other to duels usually have something they want to prove," he answered. "Friendly duels can be just for fun, of course, but if we're talking about serious duels... yes, they tend to take place between foes, or rivals, and are meant to show who's the better one."

The Slytherin boy seemed satisfied with the answer.

"All right," Harry continued. "I'll demonstrate this spell once before you all break up into pairs to practice it yourselves." He paused. "For that I'll need a volunteer – you'll just have to come up here and hold out your wand, that's all."

"I'll do it," came a voice from the end of the classroom.

Harry looked up to find Draco Malfoy standing there, leaning against the doorway.

Draco was dressed in his school robes, complete with the green and silver tie loosely knotted around his neck and his Prefect badge pinned onto his robes. Harry stared at him, stunned, and forgot to breathe.

There was a hush in the classroom – then the first year Slytherins, seeing the serpent crest on Draco's robes and the colours of his tie, broke out in cheering. If any of them recognised who Draco was, evidently his being a Slytherin mattered more than the fact that he was a disgraced Malfoy.

Draco walked up the centre aisle and halted at the front of the classroom, a few feet away from Harry. He said nothing, although Harry saw a smirk lift the sides of his mouth; there was some of that familiar Malfoy arrogance again, and seeing it now sent a shiver up Harry's spine.

"All right then." Harry cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice level even though his mind was spinning so fast he could barely think. "Um, Malfoy, stand over there with your wand."

Draco reached into his pocket and took out his wand, grasping it lightly in his hand. He held Harry's gaze and waited.

Harry drew a deep breath, and then pointed his own wand at Draco.

"Expelliarmus," he said clearly, and across from him Draco's wand flew out of his hand and arced through the air. Harry reached out and caught it; the Gryffindors applauded, while the Slytherins remained silent.

Draco stood where he was, wandless. The expression in his eyes was veiled, but a curl played on the sides of his lips as he gazed across the distance at Harry, and it made Harry's chest tighten with a strangely pleasurable sensation.

"So," Harry tried to marshal his thoughts as he turned to his class. "You just saw how Expelliarmus works. It's not all that difficult, you just need to concentrate and make sure you aim properly before –"

"Wizard's duel!" suddenly yelled the Slytherin boy with the upturned nose. "Come on, let's see both of you duel!"

"No," Harry said immediately. "That is completely out of the question –"

"But you said you'd show us duelling today!"

"I said I'd tell you about wizard's duels, I never said anything about –"

But the rest of Harry's sentence was drowned out as the entire class (including the Gryffindors, the traitorous little runts) promptly began to fill the classroom with chants of "DUEL! DUEL!"

Draco glanced at them, looking amused.

"Sounds like a good idea," he said, and the chants grew even louder.

Harry grabbed Draco by the arm and pulled him aside.

"What," he hissed, "are you doing here?"

Draco looked at him, unfazed.

"We parted on a rather... open-ended note the last time," he said, and there was definitely a smirk in his tone. "Do you remember, or should I –?"

"No! I mean, yes, of course I remember," Harry cut in hastily. "But as you can see, I'm teaching right now – so can we talk about this later?"

Draco tilted his head towards the growing racket from the eleven-year-olds.

"It looks like your class wants us to demonstrate a wizard's duel," he remarked, as if making an observation about the weather.

"Yeah, well," Harry said flatly. "That's not going to happen."

To Harry's surprise Draco grinned, and then turned to face the students.

"Okay, everyone," he said loudly, and the noise immediately died down. "Professor Potter here, he says we should put it to a vote."

"I did not say that!" Harry whispered fiercely, jerking on his sleeve, but Draco kept going.

"So let's have a show of hands – first, who doesn't want a duel?"

No one moved. A couple of boys even crossed their arms.

"All right," Draco said. "Who wants to see a wizard's duel?"

The resounding roar of approval that accompanied every single hand shooting straight up in the air made Harry's heart sink.

He spun on Draco. "No way."

"Why not?" Draco's eyes were dark and bright at the same time. "You did tell them this was going to be a practical lesson."

The class was getting rowdier by the second; the boys were whooping and hollering and jumping up and down, and the girls were, well, behaving in a manner that would likely horrify McGonagall if she walked in here. Which would probably happen very soon, at this rate – and Harry didn't want to think that he couldn't keep his own class under control.

"All right!" Harry yelled. "If everyone in this classroom shuts up and gets back to their seats in the next five seconds, there will be a duel!"

Loud scraping of chairs ensued, and within about three seconds the entire class was in their seats, completely silent, waiting with rapt attention.

Harry sighed; he glanced at Draco, who had a smug expression on his face. You bastard, Harry almost told him out loud, but then remembered he was still the teacher in this classroom and bit his tongue at the very last moment.

He turned back to his class and glared at them.

"Fine," he said briskly. "Wizard's duels. For real duels you'll need to have a second, who takes over if you die, but since neither of us –" he cut a sharp look at Draco, "plans to die today, that won't be necessary."

He stepped closer to Draco, shoved Draco's wand back into his hand, and then muttered, "Safe spells only, or I really will have to kill you after this."

With that Harry turned and walked towards to the edge of the open space at the front of the classroom; Draco moved towards the opposite side, putting some distance between them.

"First we take our positions," Harry said, speaking to the class but facing Draco. "Then we bow."

And as he did Harry felt a tingle of anticipation run through him, washing away his initial trepidation and making his heartbeat quicken with excitement. It also made him remember what it had been like when he was alone with Draco in Regulus's bedroom; watching Draco stand there, his grey eyes dark in the half-light as he stepped closer to Harry, then leaned in and –

Draco moved, raising his wand hand; Harry reacted instinctively.

"Expelliarmus!" he shouted, just as Draco yelled "Serpensortia!"

A medium-sized black snake exploded out of Draco's wand; Harry's spell hit it squarely, sending the snake flying towards the students instead. The girls shrieked and everyone scrambled out of their seats to avoid the serpent, which was hissing and twisting on the floor.

Malfoy, you bastard, Harry thought. He quickly pointed his wand at the snake and yelled, "Finite Incantatum!" The snake vanished in a puff of black smoke.

Draco aimed several more spells at him, which Harry dodged while firing back a few of his own. With each jinx that whizzed past him, Harry could tell that Draco's wand was getting weaker – and he remembered what Draco had said, that the wand hadn't been working properly ever since Harry had taken it from him.

"Locomotor Mortis!" Draco shouted; but this time his wand only spouted a feeble jet of sparks, which flared and then fizzled out.

Harry saw the look of dismay on Draco's face; he stepped forward and raised his own wand, pointing it directly at Draco. Then he paused – it was over.

The moment felt like an eternity, and then Draco held out his wand and yelled, forcefully, "Expelliarmus!"

Harry felt his wand being ripped out of his hand – it flew through the air and clattered out of sight somewhere behind the teacher's desk.

Harry saw the surprise in Draco's eyes – then cheers broke out from the Slytherins, and Draco looked away. Harry closed his empty palm and stood there, wandless, watching Draco turn to his fellow Slytherins with a grin; and that was the first real smile he'd seen on Draco's face in longer than he could remember.

The lunch bell rang before Harry could get the class to settle down after the duel. He pocketed his wand as he watched the students scamper out of the classroom, most likely rushing off to tell their friends all about their very eventful Defence Against the Dark Arts class.

Harry stood leaning against the edge of the teacher's desk; suddenly he felt exhausted, and all too aware of Draco's presence in the room. Draco was standing silently to one side, a distance away from Harry.

When the classroom had emptied, Draco finally took a step forward. He was still holding his wand in his hand.

"Now that we're even," he said to Harry, "my wand should be back to normal."

He pointed his wand at the open doorway.

"Colloportus." A steady burst of sparks immediately shot towards the door, which instantly sealed itself; Harry even heard the bolt slide firmly into place.

Draco looked satisfied. He turned to Harry – and even though every single day since that afternoon in Grimmauld Place Harry had thought about what he wanted to say to Draco, what could possibly make things right between them – but once again, now that Draco was actually here Harry didn't know what to do next.

"I thought you didn't want to come back to Hogwarts," Harry finally said.

Draco didn't answer; he glanced down at the floor, and when he raised his eyes again the expression in them was sombre.

"The Debt," Draco said, looking straight at Harry. "You could've made me do anything... but you didn't."

Harry shook his head once.

"You don't owe me anything, Draco," he answered. "You never did."

Draco stepped forward.

"I know," he said, and now Draco was so close that Harry could feel the warmth of his breath fanning against his own face. He instinctively took a step backwards.

"Don't," he said sharply.

"Why?" Draco demanded, a challenge in his eyes. "Because you don't want to?"

"No," Harry said, holding Draco's gaze. "Because I do."

He turned away – but suddenly Draco grabbed his arm, and then leaned in and pressed his mouth to Harry's.

The touch of Draco's lips against his own sent an electric jolt through Harry – paralysing at first, and then so liberating, and his next impulse was to lean into the kiss, into Draco, which was what Harry did until his mind caught up with his senses and wrested back control.

Harry pushed Draco away, breaking contact.

"Stop it," he blurted out, and he could hear the defensiveness and anguish in his own voice. "I know you don't want this, Draco – you made that clear enough the last time."

Draco's eyes flashed, and Harry was almost sure he would turn around and stalk out of the classroom and never look back. But Draco didn't; instead he took a step forward again, and this time he pressed his hawthorn wand into Harry's hand, and then took Harry's wrist and pressed the tip of the wand to his own chest.

Harry blinked, confused. "What are you –"

"Do the Truth Charm," Draco said, staring into Harry's eyes. "See for yourself."

"Draco, this is –"

"Do it, Harry."

Harry looked at him; finally he took a deep breath and muttered, "Veritas."

A shimmer of silvery-gold light burst from Draco's wand and flowed into Draco's chest – but instead of the tingling, floating sensation Harry had experienced when he was on the receiving end of the spell, now Harry felt as if his thoughts had suddenly been thrown into sharp focus. And the strangest thing was that the images of him and Draco that rushed through his mind were familiar, yet different – it was a moment before he realised why.

Then Draco lifted Harry's hand away, breaking the spell; and a split second later Harry found himself backed up against the wall right next to the chalkboard. Then Draco was kissing him, the way Harry had seen in his mind just moments before – as if he really wanted to, and this time Harry knew it was true.

And now he kissed Draco back, the way he'd meant it all along; he closed his eyes and let his tongue slide into Draco's mouth, felt Draco's tongue against his, and it was like the smell of grass and the taste of rain and all the memories that would be the final things he wanted to remember, at the end.

They were both breathless and panting when Draco finally pulled back. His hands were on Harry's face and Harry found himself looking into Draco's eyes, so close they were a blur of dark grey.

"Come on," Draco whispered, his lips brushing against Harry's. "Let's continue this someplace more... private."

Harry blinked. "We're in Hogwarts – where can we go that's..."

Draco took a step back; there was a gleam in his eyes, and suddenly Harry knew.

"Let's go," he said, feeling slightly dizzy with excitement. "I know a couple of shortcuts."

Most of the students in the castle were making their way downstairs for lunch, and a few of Harry's usual shortcuts easily kept them away from the masses as they slipped out of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom on the first floor and made their way up to the seventh floor corridor.

They finally halted in front of the stretch of wall opposite Barnabas the Barmy's tapestry.

"I hope the Room of Requirement's still in there," Harry said, staring at the blank wall and feeling somewhat doubtful. "That fire burned up everything."

"I think it only destroyed the Room of Hidden Things," Draco replied, standing next to him. "If we ask the Room to turn into anything else, it should still work."

"All right then," Harry said. "Let's just hope no one else is inside, or it won't transform."

Draco nodded, and they both started walking. They passed back and forth in front of the blank wall, and Harry felt a flush on his cheeks as he concentrated hard on what he wanted: I need a place where I can be alone with Draco... I need somewhere that Draco and I can be alone...

Harry turned around after their third walk past, his heart pounding with anticipation – and there it was, the familiar, polished door that had once again magically appeared in the wall. Harry glanced at Draco; then he reached out, seized the brass handle and cautiously opened the door.

Inside was a room, although not as cavernous as the Room of Hidden Things or even as spacious as the D.A.'s headquarters. It was the size of a large bedroom, not unlike Draco's in Malfoy Manor – woven tapestries decorated the walls and elaborate, rune-like patterns were carved along the borders of the ceiling, and an antique oak table was flanked by two comfortable-looking high backed armchairs. There was a faint smoky smell in the air, and the edges of the curtains looked a bit singed.

And in the middle of the room, just beneath a small chandelier, stood a large bed with a dark red velvet bedspread and fluffy pillows encased in silk covers.

Draco stepped inside first. He looked around, and then turned back to Harry.

"So," he said, arching an eyebrow pointedly in the direction of the bed. "Did you actually ask for that?"

"I... I just..." Harry stammered a little, "I don't think I..."

Draco suddenly grinned.

"Must have been me, then," he said, smirking, and Harry exhaled in relief as Draco pulled him inside the room and closed the door behind them.

Harry reached out and kissed him; Draco readily kissed him back, and together they moved in an ungainly sort of walk, still kissing as they navigated their way around the other pieces of furniture towards the bed.

Draco broke the kiss briefly to shrug off his robes. He let them fall in a heap on the floor, and then pulled off his jumper and his tie. Harry did likewise, and when Draco climbed onto the bed Harry followed him without needing any further invitation.

The bed was extremely comfortable; the pillows were soft and the velvet covers felt smooth under Harry's hands. Draco lay back on the bed and Harry leaned over him – then they were kissing again, and Draco's hands held Harry's head and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss.

When Harry's mouth left Draco's to trail down his jaw, Draco tilted his head back and let out a soft sound, deep in his throat. Harry pushed apart Draco's open collar and kissed his neck, sucking at the spot near his collarbone, which made Draco moan and arch and tighten his fingers in Harry's hair. Harry let out a soft laugh, his lips still pressed against Draco's skin – he stroked his hands up Draco's sides, and then let his fingers slide under the edge of Draco's shirt.

Draco suddenly caught Harry's wrist, holding it back. "Wait."

Harry immediately stopped; he could feel the new tension in Draco's body and he pulled away.

"What?" he asked, gazing at Draco's face. "What's wrong?"

Draco avoided Harry's eyes; he was quiet for a moment.

"I'd rather keep the shirt on," he finally said, a forced casualness in his tone. "You see, I've got some... scars."

Harry drew back and looked at him.

"Draco." He waited until the other boy raised his eyes to him. "This is me you're talking to – scars don't bother me at all."

"No, they're not just..." Draco hesitated and looked away again. "They're... not pretty."

Harry reached out and brushed the back of his hand lightly against Draco's face.

"Let me see," he whispered. "Please."

Draco closed his eyes. Finally he took a deep breath and let go of Harry's wrist.

Very slowly, carefully, Harry undid the buttons on Draco's shirt, starting from the bottom and working his way up; then he gently reached out and pushed the fabric aside.

He blinked a couple of times, and then stared in blank horror – not because the scars were ugly, knotted marks carved across Draco's chest and torso, but because he couldn't bear to imagine the kind of pain Draco had suffered along with each one of them.

He looked up to find Draco's eyes on him, watching his reaction.

"What happened?" Harry asked, very softly.

"Sectumsempra," Draco said, and then dropped his gaze. "After – after you all escaped, Voldemort made sure my family was... well punished."

Harry felt as if his blood had frozen in his veins; so terrible was the chill that ran through every inch of his body. That night at Malfoy Manor – his only concern had been to make sure everyone got out of there safely. Never once had he cast a thought to the Malfoys' fate at Voldemort's hands when he returned to find that all their captives had escaped.

"It doesn't hurt anymore," Draco continued quietly, "but the scars will never go away."

Harry recalled what Snape had once said about Sectumsempra, how there would be scarring if dittany wasn't taken immediately; and with another terrible lurch Harry realised that he too had inflicted Sectumsempra on Draco before. The gruesome memory of blood spurting profusely from Draco's face and chest rose in Harry's mind, making him feel sick.

And now he could barely look at Draco anymore – not when they both knew Draco had gotten those scars because of Harry, and from a cruel spell that Harry himself had once used on him before.

"Draco," Harry said, his voice choked, "I'm –"

But Draco just shook his head once, and then pulled Harry down and kissed him on the mouth, cutting off his words. Harry squeezed his eyes shut and held Draco tightly as he kissed him back, fervently, desperately – and he hoped that somehow Draco knew how sorry he was, how he wished that Draco hadn't been the one to pay the price for what he'd done.

Their kissing grew more urgent; Harry felt Draco's fingers scrabble open the front of his pants, and then, in a surprising move, Draco rolled them both over so their positions were reversed. Now Harry was on his back, leaning against the pillows, and Draco was straddling Harry's hips, his knees on either side of Harry's body.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath as he felt Draco's erection press down against his. Then Draco started to move, grinding himself back and forth, slowly, so their crotches rubbed against each other – Harry threw his head back and groaned, and Draco leaned in and kissed him, hot and feverish. Then he pulled back, breathing harshly; he anchored his hands in the pillow on either side of Harry's head and rocked himself against Harry. The rhythm of his thrusts grew harder and faster, and as Draco pushed forward one more time Harry felt his entire body clench –

They came at the same time, gasping and panting; and Harry pulled Draco down and kissed him hard, open-mouthed, kissed him like it was the end of the world and he would never kiss anyone like this again.

When the waves of sensation finally subsided, their foreheads were still pressed together and Harry realised their fingers were entwined. Draco's eyes were still closed, although they fluttered open when Harry shifted slightly.

Draco's eyes were unfocused for a moment before the familiar glint returned; the edge of his mouth quirked upwards, but he said nothing as he let go of Harry's hand, moved off his body and flopped down beside him on the bed. Harry remained where he was, even though his shirt was bunched up under his back and the wet spot on the front of his half-undone pants was beginning to feel sticky and uncomfortable.

Silence filled the room and Harry wasn't sure what to do next – he'd never actually gotten this far with anyone. What were you supposed to say afterwards? And was it normal to really want to do it all over again, like, right now?

Harry cut a sidelong glance at Draco, lying next to him; Draco's shirt had fallen open, and from this angle the scars on his body looked like faint shadows, just tricks of the light.

The silence grew louder and Harry wondered how it would end: they could both call this a one-time experience and go their separate ways, denying it meant anything. Hell, they'd spent the past seven years doing just that, playing this – this game of theirs. Draco could probably keep doing it, too; but Harry wasn't sure he could stand waiting another seven years for something else to happen.

"Hate to say it, Potter," Draco finally spoke, breaking the silence. "But that was –"

"Good?" Harry blurted out, and then held his breath.

There was a pause.

"I was going to say bloody incredible," Draco said. "But I think good covers it, yes."

Harry felt a flood of immense relief rush through him; and suddenly all he wanted was to just lie here with Draco for the entire day, even longer if he could. It felt like the rest of the castle was another world, a world that would get on fine without them for the time being.

"Just now, at the duel." Draco propped himself on his elbow so he was facing Harry. "You let me win."

Harry met his gaze. "Yes, I did."

"You let me embarrass you in front of your class. People are going to be talking about it for weeks. Months, even."

"Yes, they will."

Draco looked at him. "Why?"

Harry shrugged.

"Because you're the better one," he said simply.

There was a beat of silence; Harry caught a brief expression flit across Draco's face.

"You're sure you didn't just do it so I'd start sleeping with you?" Draco asked, and the mock seriousness in his voice made Harry grin.

"Like you said," Harry replied in a light tone. "People are going to be talking about that duel for months. I'll probably need some, oh I don't know... distraction."

Draco raised an eyebrow.

"Fair enough," he said, and gave Harry a knowing smirk.

Harry smiled; then he leaned over, took Draco's face in his hands and kissed him on the mouth, long and deep.

The Snitch had been caught – the game was over, and now the rest of their lives could begin.

 

-fin-


End file.
